


Esquisse

by Vulpesmellifera



Series: Craquelure [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Artist Mycroft, Bottom Greg Lestrade, First Time, High quality pastels feel amazing, M/M, Model Greg, New Relationship, Porn Interlude, Porn with Feelings, Seduction, Top Mycroft Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:35:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29448648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulpesmellifera/pseuds/Vulpesmellifera
Summary: Mycroft and Greg end their first date inside Mycroft's studio. Greg offers to model for a quick sketch, and how can Mycroft say no?(Please note, this is a smutty interlude between two parts of a continuous story. Readers of Craquelure, rejoice!)
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Craquelure [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1319663
Comments: 28
Kudos: 102
Collections: Soft Smut Sunday





	Esquisse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lavender_and_Vanilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_and_Vanilla/gifts).



> Hi y'all. I have not forgotten this series. _The Hue of Loss_ is halfway outlined, and I'm hoping to post it in May of this year. I had planned to post this and _The Hue of Loss_ last year, but pandemic-influenced moods got in the way, and I'm afraid this series had to sit back for a while. 
> 
> Many, many thanks to Anarfea, who provided beta services for this work! <3
> 
> Fear not, it is not abandoned. Enjoy Mycroft and Greg's first time. Happy Valentine's Day!

Black charcoal dust smudges the tips of Mycroft’s fingers. He sketches with quick thrusts over the paper, glancing up and down from his subject to the page. 

It isn’t Greg Lestrade sitting on that stool anymore. It’s an intersection of light and dark shapes, an amalgamation of values that inform Mycroft’s brain of the existence of an object before him. He takes what is essential and translates it to a page. When he finally focuses on the whole, he sees he’s created a mere simulacrum of a stunning man. 

“How’s it coming?” Greg’s voice is rough, eager. His eyes follow Mycroft with devouring hunger that flushes blood into the capillaries of Mycroft’s cheeks. 

“I shall need more practice, I think,” Mycroft says. “I may need you to visit often.”

The corner of Greg’s mouth curves upward. “I think that can be arranged.”

Mycroft licks his lips as his eyes travel over the lines of Greg’s body. Creases in the man’s trousers at his thighs, a slight bulge against the zipper of his pants. His argentite hair is muted in the soft light of the lamp, and his skin glows with a burnished warmth. Mycroft thinks about running his hands over that skin.

“Can I see it?” Greg’s whisper slips past his thoughts.

Mycroft flips the sketch around. 

“Wow.” Greg grins, his teeth titanium white and square. “I know I’ve said this before, but you’re really good.”

“Then,” Mycroft says, “Perhaps I won’t need the practice.” He lifts his eyebrows in jest.

Greg chuckles, low and gravelly. “Well, now don’t be too hasty. As I understand it, an artist should keep practicing their art.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft’s eyes rake down his subject again. 

“Like, maybe you’d like to practice skin tones?” Greg runs his tongue over his teeth.

“Are you volunteering?”

“I think I might go insane with jealousy if you practice painting skin tones with someone else.”

A pleased shiver ripples down Mycroft’s spine. “Well, we wouldn’t want that.” His eyes lift to the shelves hanging on the wall of his studio, where art supplies are stored in orderly rows. He retrieves a wooden box that holds his pastels, and opens it on the table next to him. “Many people assume skin color is simply shades of brown or yellow or pink. Using what might be termed ‘flesh tones’ can lead to a very flat representation of the organ.”

He pulls out a few colors and cradles them in his palm. The soft pastels aren’t coarse like drawing charcoal, but buttery and silken. They rub off on his skin with the mere touch of pigment to epidermis. “For you, I should think large color blocks of yellow ochre with carmine, blue-violet and permanent deep red in the shadows, and the lightest tint of phthalo blue or light yellow for the highlights. For some of the deeper lines in your face, a touch of olive green.”

“That sounds like a rainbow.”

Mycroft smiles, a warm glowing feeling circulating in his chest as he looks upon the glorious man sitting before him. It spins into a bout of nervousness. This tract he’s taken, feeling daring, knowing Greg wants him, but wondering if he’s going about it the right way. 

He walks closer to Greg and his heart pounds in his ears.  _ We’ve made our intentions clear to one another, so this will be okay. He wants this. _ “Will you remove your shirt?”

Greg tilts his head. His grin widens as his eyes lock with Mycroft’s. His hands move to his top button. Mycroft has to break eye contact to watch Greg’s sturdy, thick fingers pop it open. He can’t pull his gaze away as Greg continues in a slow, teasing trek down all of the buttons, unveiling a delectable strip of tanned skin. 

Greg pulls the tails of his shirt out of his trousers and pushes it off of his shoulders. Silver hair from whorls from pec to pec and trails down his belly, conceding to the line of his trousers. 

Mycroft wets his lips with his tongue, and meets Greg’s eyes. The umber color smoulders, and the tip of Greg’s tongue is caught between his teeth. Mycroft takes a step closer, still holding the pastels in his hands. “Most people, when they think of chalk pastels, expect that they are hard to the touch like school chalk or drawing charcoal. But these pastels are of very high quality, with a higher ratio of pigment to binder. It makes the sensation of touching them next to the skin very pleasant. They’re soft. They crush easily and release their color to stain whatever canvas you press them against.” He lowers his hands so Greg can see the dark smears of color where the pastels have touched his palms and fingers. “And when one draws the figure, it’s helpful to be intimately acquainted with anatomy.” 

Greg’s stare intensifies. Mycroft transfers all the pieces of pastel to one hand and reaches out with his other to touch the curve of Greg’s jaw. He streaks a bit of yellow ochre along Greg’s face, moves his hand to Greg’s clavicle, brushing one thumb in a light yellow streak across the bone. “One of my favorites is the sternocleidomastoid, which starts at the manubrium of the sternum and clavicle,” he slides his thumb up the muscle of Greg’s neck, “and ends here at the temporal bone, by the ear. It gives the side of the neck its shape.” A touch of phthalo blue in the shadow below the ear.

“Next, I draw the line of the trapezius.” He runs his hand along the muscle to the shoulder. “Then, the deltoid, here.” Greg’s breathing is uneven but soft. Mycroft moves his hand over the left pectoral. He can feel the quickening of the man’s heartbeat. He traces around the areola with a finger and enjoys the hitch in Greg’s breath. He looks down to see the swelling at the seam of Greg’s pants, just below the button. Mycroft salivates, and swallows. “You’re so good for me.”

Greg huffs a laugh. He grabs Mycroft’s hand and brings it to his mouth. He pushes his tongue between two of Mycroft’s fingers as he watches Mycroft with a steady gaze. Mycroft pulls his hand away and dives forward to capture Greg’s mouth in a devouring kiss. Their tongues explore until Greg pulls back, catching Mycroft’s lower lip between his teeth. The scrape of bone across his lip goes straight to Mycroft’s cock. He steps into the space between Greg’s legs and pushes their erections together. Greg lets loose a satisfied sigh. He leans back to look Mycroft in the eye. His voice is hoarse and full of lust as he says, “Are we finished with the anatomy lesson? I might burst.”

Mycroft is feeling devilish. He smirks. “Not quite. Perhaps you might remove your trousers.”

Greg’s lips pull into a grin. “I might.”

Mycroft steps back. “Please.”

“Only because you asked so sweetly.” Greg undoes the belt swiftly, letting the buckle hang. His fingers work at the button of his trousers, pop it open, and pull down the zip. The sound of its metal teeth parting is loud in the quiet of the studio. Mycroft kneels to the floor and undoes the laces of Greg’s shoes, helping him toe them off and then removing his socks. When Greg stands, his shoulders roll back, and he pushes his trousers down, letting them pool into a pile around his ankles. He steps out of the pile, his eyes never leaving Mycroft, who still kneels.

Mycroft’s eyes meanwhile skate all over Greg’s figure. Soft around a middle he can’t wait to touch and kiss and lick. A scar on the left thigh. A scattering of silver hair up and down his legs. His thighs and calves are shapely - no doubt from the weekend football. 

He’s still wearing grey, silk boxers. His erection is obvious. Tantalizing.

“You look hungry,” Greg says.

Mycroft huffs. “You look good enough to eat.” He rises from the floor. 

“You only asked for the trousers. Shall I take off the pants, too?” Greg asks.

Mycroft can’t speak. He nods as he sucks his lips between his teeth.

Greg pushes his pants down his legs, bending over to lift his feet out of them. When he stands, his cock is full and ruddy. Carmine and light yellow and rose madder deep. A gleam of liquid appears at the slit. 

Mycroft drags his gaze up to meet Greg’s. “Exquisite,” he drawls. He approaches Greg, squeezing the pastels in his grip. He drops them on the stool. Some of them  _ plop _ to the floor and roll away. His hands are covered in an array of hues, and he traces his fingers over Greg’s biceps, pecs, and abdominals. Blues and reds and purples trail in their wake. When their lips meet, Mycroft takes control of the kiss, sliding one hand up behind Greg’s head and gripping his hair in a fist. Greg groans as his body goes slack in Mycroft’s hold. 

Mycroft pulls back from the kiss. “Turn around, lean forward, and place your arms on the wall.”

Greg’s face looks replete with bliss. He turns to face the wall, stretches his arms to plant his hands on the surface, his arse pushed out behind him. Mycroft paints kisses down Greg’s spine as he grips the top of his hips. Greg flinches beneath him but exhales in pleasure. 

Mycroft slides a hand over the curve of Greg’s arse. Squeezes. “You’re beautiful,” he says, watching as the man shivers.

Greg shakes his head as he laughs. “I’m intrigued by where you’re taking this.”

Mycroft skips a moment in his confidence. “You can tell me to stop at any time.”

Greg’s shoulders lift with his breath. “Do whatever you want. I want you to control this.”

Mycroft’s cock twitches. He leans down again and lays kisses upon all the glorious skin of Greg Lestrade, over his back and his obliques. His shoulders. He slides his hands up Greg’s arms and pins his hands against the wall as he scrapes his teeth across the nape of Greg’s neck. 

He kisses Greg behind his ear and steps back. Greg’s cock is wet-tipped and forming a droplet.

Mycroft reaches for a paper towel on the studio table and wipes the pastel pigment from his hands. “Wait here. Do not move. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Greg says, with a shudder. He lets his head hang between his arms.

Mycroft darts from the room and into his bedroom. He grabs the tube of lube and a condom from his bedside drawer and hurries back to his studio, his pulse jumping with excitement.

The sight of Greg still braced against the wall steals his breath. The muscles bunch in the man’s shoulders and his hips tip in such a way that his arse tilts up, on display. On display for  _ Mycroft. _

Mycroft approaches slowly, taking on an air of pride. “I see you didn’t move just like I said. You did very well.”

Greg shakes his behind at him, pulling unexpected laughter from Mycroft. He presses his clothed erection to Greg’s arse. 

“You’re killing me, Mycroft,” Greg mutters. “This isn’t how I pictured our first time, but I like it.”

Mycroft smiles. Says nothing. Maybe he should have asked Greg how he wanted it?

Greg stills, as if sensing Mycroft’s dithering. “You pictured it, didn’t you?”

Mycroft waits a beat before answering. “I’ve thought of you modeling for me. How could I not imagine it?” It’s a large thing for him to admit, but this is part of living his truth. Being honest with himself, and with those around him. He opens the lube, takes a step back, and drizzles some out onto his palm. Rolls it about with his fingers before sliding them against the cleft of Greg’s arse. His finger catches on the rim, and Greg moans. “I thought of taking you over my table.”

Greg lets out a throaty groan. “Jesus, Mycroft. You hit all the right buttons for me.”

Confidence renewed, Mycroft teases a moment more before inserting an entire finger and crooking it against the nub of nerves inside. Greg throws his head back and moans again. 

Mycroft sets the lube on the stool beside the pile of pastels, and uses his other hand to take hold of Greg’s cock. 

Greg hisses. “Yes, yes, yes.”

Mycroft works him like this, flexing his finger in the tight heat and pulling on Greg’s cock.

“I haven’t even undressed yet,” Mycroft murmurs in Greg’s ear. 

“Not fair. But super hot somehow.”

“I love watching you like this. Your cock is dripping on my floor.”

Greg whines. 

Mycroft adds a second finger. Greg pushes back as Mycroft rocks his fingers inside. “Do you like the sensation of being filled?” 

“Yes, god, yes.” 

“Good. I want to keep you full of me.”

“God, yeah.” Greg’s head falls forward again. “Oh my god, I am dripping.”

Mycroft catches the next drop before it falls and smears it over the crown of Greg’s cock.

“Oh that’s hot,” Greg says, panting.

“Tell me when you’re close.”

“Christ, Mycroft, it won’t take long at this point.”

Mycroft removes his fingers, keeps his other hand tugging over Greg’s cock as he undoes his trousers. He pauses long enough to apply the condom, and slick himself up with lube. Then he stands behind Greg, his hands on Greg’s hips, staring down at the shape of Greg’s arse. His breathing is laboured; the colors around them seem bright, and Greg’s arse is a thing of beauty.

Greg seems to sense his hesitation. “Everything alright?” 

“You - you don’t mind that I am taking you like this?” Mycroft still in his suit, tie undone and sleeves rolled up, cock hanging from his zip. Like Greg is some powerful man’s dirty secret, when Greg is so much more than that.

“Mycroft, I’ve been dying to either get fucked by you or to get to fuck you for a while now.” Greg pushes himself from the wall and leans back into Mycroft, pressing his back against Mycroft’s front. His hand reaches back, wraps around Mycroft’s head. He turns to capture Mycroft’s mouth, pulling him close. After a wet, sloppy kiss, he begs, “Please, please, fuck me. Like this.”

Mycroft is lost to Greg’s rough timbre. He places the crown of his cock against Greg’s rim. Greg falls forward on the wall, pushing his arse out as Mycroft pushes in. It’s hot and it’s tight, and the low keening sound emerging from Greg’s throat tugs at something deep in Mycroft’s belly. When he pops past the ring, Greg swears under his breath, and Mycroft stills, waits, until Greg nods and tells him “More.” 

He keeps Greg’s cheeks spread as he watches Greg’s arse swallow his cock. 

Mycroft releases a strangled moan when he bottoms out. Greg’s fingernails scrabble against the wall as Mycroft pulls back, and pushes in. Testing, he rocks back and forth again, and again. Slow and gentle, as Greg’s hands curl against the wall. 

“God, you can go harder, just a little harder,” Greg pants.

Mycroft complies with a faster snapping of his hips, the wet noise of their flesh meeting and Greg’s choked cries the only sounds in the room. Greg’s back flexes in the light, and Mycroft wishes he could paint him like this, tense and perspiring and wound up tight, losing himself into the carnal bliss of their coupling. 

“I didn’t know it could be like this.” The words spill from his mouth without warning. He’s had assignations in the past, but it’s been years since anyone has let him touch them like this - since anyone has touched him. He slides an arm around Greg’s chest and pulls him up, hungry to feel as much of Greg as he can. Greg’s arm raises to wrap around the back of Mycroft’s head, his fingers tunneling into Mycroft’s hair and gripping hard. The resulting tremor that shakes his limbs and the shot of lust that zings through his groin takes him by surprise. He didn’t think it would be like this. Yes, he’s thought of taking Greg in his studio, more or less over the table rather than fucking against the wall, but the torrent of lust clouds his thinking. The response of Greg’s writhing and bucking, and those hot gasps falling from his lips, spur Mycroft on in his desperate fucking of a man he thinks he could be falling in love with. 

His mind stutters at that thought, as his heart pounds. His hips falter and his knees buckle. He’s almost knock-kneed and Greg is on his tiptoes. 

“Hey, I can hear you thinking,” Greg murmurs. “Don’t do that.” He grips Mycroft’s hair tighter, pulling harder on the roots. Mycroft gasps and plunges forward. He worries at the nape of Greg’s neck with teeth and tongue. Greg’s warbles and whimpers are gratifying, like playing an instrument, touching the right keys or the right frets. “This is so hot, God. Just thinking about it. You’ve only got your cock out, and you’ve got me naked against the wall, fucking me so good.”

A whine tears from Mycroft’s throat as the tension in his abdomen builds. Everything sizzles at the edges of his awareness. Greg is tight and he’s hot, and everything is like silk. He can look down and see where his cock disappears into Greg’s hole. 

“Fucking me with your huge cock,” Greg growls. “Good god, Mycroft, you feel so fucking good. Do I feel good to you? Is it hot enough? Wet enough? Is it tight? Do you like fucking my tight hole?”

The tension finally bursts inside him, sends powerful waves of pleasure over him as he empties into the condom, shoving hard one last time inside of Greg. His body shakes, jerks, and goes rigid. He grips Greg’s hips so hard they might bruise. 

Then he slumps, if only for a moment, hot and sweaty against the plane of Greg’s back. His shirt sticks to his skin.

“God, you’re incredible. That was so good, so good.” Greg is still hanging onto the wall. Mycroft’s orgasm was powerful, but his brain is back online and the only thing he can think of doing is making Greg come, making Greg scream with ecstasy.

He lets himself fall to the floor, and makes Greg spin around, pushes him against the wall so he can come face to face with that glorious cock. Carmine, light yellow, and rose madder deep. 

He hears the thump of Greg’s head against the wall, the wild exhalation that erupts from his throat as Mycroft engulfs his cock. He’s rarely sucked a cock in his life - it never held much appeal to him. But for Greg, he sucks like a champ, working his tongue around the crown, hollowing his cheeks, bobbing his head. Greg’s hand settles on top of his head, and when Mycroft sneaks a glance upward, he can see Greg’s other hand is on his own head, grabbing his hair like he might pull it out in a frenzy of lust.

_ I’m doing that. I’m doing that to him. _

Mycroft sucks harder, brings one hand up to play with Greg’s balls while the other probes his arse. He slides fingers into that still lubricated hole and dials in on Greg’s prostate. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Mycroft!” Greg shouts, and then his cock pulses, and his grip tightens in Mycroft’s hair. Mycroft doesn’t let Greg pull him off - he takes in as much of Greg as he can, and internally celebrates when he feels wet liquid hit the back of his throat. He swallows every last drop, licks its sensitive head as he slowly pulls off. Kisses the tip with something like reverence.

Greg slides down the wall. Mycroft gathers him into his arms and onto his lap. Greg clutches Mycroft’s shoulder and buries his face into the side of Mycroft’s neck.

After a moment, he can feel Greg smiling into his neck. “That was one helluva anatomy lesson.”

Mycroft snorts. “I’ve never had a nude modeling session end that way.”

Greg laughs. Kisses Mycroft’s cheek. “Mind if we shower?”

“Together?” Mycroft’s never taken a shower with another person. “I suppose it’s rather efficient.”

Greg snerks. “Yes. Efficiency is my middle name.”

Fuzzy-headed, Mycroft replies, “No, it’s Abraham.” Then he frowns. “You’re teasing me.”

Greg guffaws with laughter, his whole body shaking in Mycroft’s arms. “I knew this was gonna be fun with you.”

Mycroft, face burning, avoids looking at the other man. “I didn’t know how fun this could be.”

Greg quiets, pets his shoulder and the back of his neck. “Thank you for taking a chance on me.”

“I should be thanking you.” 

Greg presses his forehead to Mycroft’s. “Then I guess we both get to be grateful.”

Mycroft tilts his head to kiss him. “Yes. I feel like each day together, until today, has been like a rough draft. And now, we’ve come to the point where we can work on the final painting.”

Greg brushes one finger along Mycroft’s jaw, and gazes at him. What Greg says next, Mycroft thinks he’ll never forget. 

“I get the feeling it’s going to be a masterpiece.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Lav, for unknowingly giving me the push to finish and post this!


End file.
